Oh Brother, What Have You Done?
by ADayInOurLife
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, two-shot. Mycroft Holmes finds out about Sherlock's suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi, this is my first fanfic, so please review, constructive criticism is welcome!**

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Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, reading over the report on North Korea's current relationship with the United States, and the undercurrent of possible warfare. Well, that was not quite an accurate description. Mycroft Holmes squirmed at his desk, glazed-over and distracted eyes pretending to scan the report on North Korea's current relationship with the United States, and the undercurrent of possible warfare. He looked at his watch every now and then, "every now and then" being every thirty seconds, and waited for the hourly report on his brother. Mycroft had been exceptionally worried about Sherlock ever since he had divulged his brother's entire life story to one Jim Moriarty, and now that his brother was on the run from the police – the idiot, Mycroft would never let him forget this stupidity – he was even more worried than before. He thought of a soothing apple turnover, but remembered his diet, and cursed himself. He settled on a cup of hot tea to soothe his over-wrought nerves.

As the cup clinked on the saucer for being put down, still half-full, and still with six minutes until the update on Sherlock's progress, Mycroft's office door burst open. He glanced up, and his stomach flipped over, dread plummeting through him like lead. Evans, who had been on "Sherlock Watch" that evening, was standing in Mycroft's doorway, as white as a sheet. The British Government gingerly rose from his stately desk chair. The agent was standing on the worn carpet, saying nothing, just staring at Mycroft with a look of pure terror on his face and wasting precious time. Mycroft's heart had stopped and turned to ice – if the Sherlock-watcher was looking like this on his shift, there could be nothing good about the situation his brother was in.

"Spit it out Evans," Mycroft ordered.

"Mr Holmes, I – er – do you want to sit?" Evans asked timidly.

"No I do not want to sit, I want you to explain your visit," Mycroft was as cordial as possible.

"M – Mr Holmes, I'm – so sorry. It's Sherlock, he's committed suicide."

The loudest silence Mycroft had ever heard exploded into the room. He stood, processing the words that were crashing down on him, demolishing his world completely. He couldn't fully understand their meaning. Suddenly, he realised what Evans had said. His brother had committed suicide. Which meant his brother was dead. Which meant that Sherlock lay somewhere, unmoving, not breathing, his heart no longer beating… And with that realisation Mycroft's weak knees gave way under his weight, and he had to clutch the oak table before he crumpled onto the ground in a heap. Evans came to him, and by Mycroft's elbow guided the shocked man to his chair. Mycroft slumped in it, defeated. It shocked Evans so completely to see the Ice Man actually giving way to his emotions – something that was thought to be impossible. All Evans felt was sympathy for his boss. He must have truly cared for Sherlock, despite all that Mycroft said.

"How?" His voice was small and scared.

"It was…he jumped off the roof of St Bart's – the hospital. He talked to John Watson on the phone beforehand, and then jumped. I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop him. I believe he had organised a meeting with someone –"

"Moriarty," Mycroft supplied, feeling very light-headed. Johnson, on watch before Evans, had traced Sherlock's texts to the criminal mastermind.

"Indeed, I saw two figures on the rooftop for some time. Then…there was a gunshot, one of the figures disappeared, and Sherlock jumped."

Mycroft was silent as he digested this.

"Would you like some tea sir?" Evans asked, genuinely worried about his boss.

"No," Mycroft's voice was curt and with a slight touch of danger. "Anthea!"

Anthea entered the room. By her face it was obvious that she knew of Sherlock's death, and she looked at Mycroft with pity. She alone had been confided to about the Holmes brother's childhood, relationship, feud, and Mycroft's care for Sherlock. Mycroft glared at Evans as he spoke:

"Anthea, please tell Mr Andrew Evans that his services are no longer required."

At this, the ex-employee of Mycroft Holmes blanched, but then looked resigned. He had obviously been expecting it. On his watch, Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide, and he hadn't prevented it; Mycroft Holmes was not one for forgiving people easily when it came to such matters. He nodded, said nothing else, and was escorted out of the room by Anthea. Mycroft steepled his hands, and memories of his brother flooded his mind. Mycroft remembered how as a little boy Sherlock has run around the estate, laughing, black curls bouncing around his forehead. He remembered Sherlock's beautiful violin playing. He thought about the times when Sherlock laughed, or genuinely smiled – letting those emotions he tried to conceal show though. It hurt to think of that Sherlock, the person he'd hurt.

And with that thought, new memories, tainted with the stain of being the ones Mycroft regretted, crashed down on him. The time he'd yelled at Sherlock for pilfering his medicine cabinet for experiments, the time Sherlock hadn't talked to him for a year after Mycroft first forced him into rehab, all the times Sherlock had been beaten in the dining room of Holmes estate and Mycroft hadn't been able to stop it. He regretted every single terrible thing he had ever done to his brother, and realised in a flash how horrible he had been. If only he could change it. Mycroft Holmes could control everything from the outbreak of war to the colour of the traffic lights to the executive decisions of companies; except the passing of time, and the death of Sherlock.

The death that his own brother was the cause of. His brother had purposely made sure that he wasn't alive anymore. Suddenly, a wave of anger came over Mycroft. He was angry at Sherlock for jumping off that building. _Why Sherlock? If anyone could cheat death for so long, it's you. You've battled terrorists, dodged bullets, caught criminals, the lot! You could have cheated death for decades longer, as you always have!_ Then he slumped as he realised it wasn't Sherlock's fault at all; Sherlock had been vilified by the media and public and had cracked under the pressure. No, it wasn't his fault. If any blame was to be given at all, it was Mycroft who was at fault. He felt sick with this thought. There was a click of his door.

"Sir?" it was Anthea. "Sir, can I get you anything? A cup of tea?"

Mycroft contemplated it.

"A – a glass of whiskey if you wouldn't mind, thank you Anthea," Mycroft's voice was rough.

He took the glass of amber liquid and with shaking hands raised it to his lips.

"I want to see him. I want to see me brother."

"I – I'll make a few phone calls," Anthea told him, staring into his eyes. Mycroft looked away, uneasy about people looking into his feelings like that.

She talked on the phone for a minute, and then ended the call. The British Government looked at her patiently.

"Sir, the morgue attendant said that his body," Mycroft almost gagged at this term, "is not ready for release yet. She said that it might not be available –"

"What do you mean, it won't be available? Who's doing the…who's the attendant?"

"One Molly Hooper sir."

"Tell her that I will see my brother. I will wait until he's ready for release, and then I will see him."

Anthea nodded. Nobody argued with Mycroft Holmes if they valued their job, family, and their very life. He took another sip of the whiskey, larger this time, set it down, and suddenly a strange feeling came over him. Mycroft's throat was feeling clogged up, and it was burning. His eyes were burning as well, and all of a sudden, so was his nose. He was utterly perplexed before he realised. He hadn't understood what it was at first for disuse of this particular aspect of being human.

"Anthea, could you please give me a moment?" he requested.

"Of course sir. I think I'll reschedule your meetings with the President of Russia and Prime Minister of Australia," she retreated from the room, typing away, as usual, on her phone.

And Mycroft did something he hadn't done since he was ten years old. He let a few tears fall thick and fast, lips pressed together tightly. He swiped his eyes and tried to rid them of the tears. From within his misery he had a beautiful thought. _Molly Hooper was your friend – she wouldn't be allowed to do your autopsy! If anyone could cheat death it would be you. Did you Sherlock?_ He buzzed Anthea in again. In his life, Mycroft Holmes would never turn down a puzzle.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hi guys, sorry it's taken ages, I went away for Christmas where there's no internet! Happy new year! **

"Yes sir?" Anthea asked.

"If you could have me taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital, and you retrieve Sherlock's phone, that would be greatly appreciated."

"Yes sir – right away."

The car ride found Mycroft in the solitude of his own thoughts, and his mind was assaulted by more memories. Head in his hands, he saw Sherlock as clear as day, and his heart physically ached, as if it was being squeezed by a tight iron band. His brother was standing, facing the window, a mournful tune echoing through the estate from his violin. Thirteen-year-old Sherlock ignored Mycroft as he entered the room. _Sherlock, forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you; it was simply unfortunate that I had to return to university. Surely you understand?_ He had been given no response. Finally, Sherlock had turned, and Mycroft froze. He was too late. In Sherlock's face he no longer saw the little boy he used to be. Father had, in Mycroft's and Mummy's absences, succeeded in changing Sherlock how he'd changed Mycroft. All there was in the younger's alabaster, thin features were the sparkling, observing, deducing eyes, and the rest of the face was expressionless, emotionless. _Mummy would be disappointed in her eldest. You haven't done your job very well_, Sherlock told him, before stalking out of the grand room, his words encircling Mycroft. His brother knew Sherlock had been completely right.

Mycroft lifted his head from his hands. He needed to do something with his mind so it wasn't swamped with regrets. He prayed to every deity and higher power he could imagine that his brother was indeed alive and safe, and this wasn't all just wishful thinking. He decided to list every King and Queen of England in order, with their dates, starting from Æthelstan. When he reached George IV, 29 January 1820 – 26 June 1830, the car pulled up outside the hospital. The first thing Mycroft did was to approach the receptionist.

"Good morning, this is Mycroft Holmes from the British Government. I am inquiring as to the whereabouts of Ms Molly Hooper?"

As he listened to the receptionist, his brow knitted together in puzzlement. As he left the desk, he smiled. Molly Hooper had gone home. Apparently, she had finished the post mortem on Sherlock _already_. Mycroft knew for a fact that that was ludicrous; she couldn't have finished it and the death certificate at such a lightning pace. It was impossible, especially because she was his friend with a more than small liking for him; she would have been a nervous wreck and it would have taken even longer than usual. Mycroft wasn't certain, but now his heart was swelled with hope, and it was a wonderful feeling. He tried not to think about what would happen if he were wrong, if in fact Sherlock was lying still on a slab in a morgue.

Mycroft stood stiff and straight, and out of the corner of his eye noticed Lestrade and John Watson making an overt show of emotion that Mycroft wouldn't know how to handle. He didn't want to start a conversation with them, so ignored the men. Instead, standing in the hateful, sterile, white hospital waiting room, he busied himself with counting every second prime number until Anthea entered with the phone. As he reached 3221, she appeared by his side.

"Here sir. The police had the phone; it wasn't damaged as it had a soft landing. Found a few metres from Sherlock on the ground."

Mycroft took the device, and powered it up. His hand shook slightly when he realised what he was holding, but as he did so well he suppressed any emotion, and continued in his reasoning. Thinking on Anthea's words, he realised that had the phone had a soft landing, maybe his brother had as well. His heart rose slightly with more hope. He went to Sherlock's messages. The most recent was to Molly Hooper. He opened the conversation, and read the latest one Sherlock had sent: _Must jump. About to call John. Position everything._ Had Molly been in on a plan? A plan that Sherlock would pretend to commit suicide, but survive and keep everyone thinking he was dead? Mycroft knew that Sherlock had talked to John Watson on the phone just before he fell, and realised he should probably ask what was said.

Reluctantly, he squeaked across the perpetually sparkling clean hospital tiles towards his brother's two friends sitting on hard plastic chairs. Lestrade, face shocked and grief-stricken, turned and saw him. John remained despondently staring into space.

"M – Mycroft, I'm so sorry about Sh – about your brother," Lestrade's voice cracked on Sherlock's name.

"Thank you. I'm here to speak to John Watson. I need to ask what Sherlock said to him on the phone during their conversation while my brother was on the roof."

Lestrade seemed puzzled by the request, and worried about asking John to repeat such a thing to Mycroft. They both glanced at John, who was obviously far too incapacitated to speak with the Government official.

"Erm…I asked before, he kept saying something about, about Sherlock saying he was a fraud, that the call was his note…that his deductions were all a magic trick, and that, erm…I can't remember if he said anything else…"

"Thank you Detective Inspector. I need to head off now; I'll see you at the funeral. Details will be forthcoming."

Lestrade's face blanched at the mention of the funeral, but nodded with a jerk of his head. Mycroft turned on his heel, and after asking the receptionist for Molly Hooper's address, found himself back in his car. It all made sense: the soft landing, the texts to Molly referring to a plan, Molly's incredible fast autopsy that was so speedy because it didn't happen, and his brother's words to John that it was a magic trick. Sherlock hadn't been alluding to his deductions; he had been cryptically telling John that this wasn't a suicide and that he wasn't dead – that the fall was_ all a magic trick_.

Mycroft stepped up the path to the front door, and knocked. Molly appeared, and started on seeing Mycroft.

"Mycroft – erm – I'm, I'm so sorry about your brother, I –"

"Yes, thank you Molly, but how about we skip the false condolences and you let me see my brother, who I know is sitting in your living room right now."

Molly looked as though she didn't know what to do, until a voice that two hours ago Mycroft thought he'd never hear again emanated from the living room.

"It's all right Molly, let Mycroft in."

The pathologist showed him to the living room, where the brother Mycroft thought was very much dead stood, very much alive.

"Hello brother dear. Really Mycroft, 4 hours and 17 minutes? You're getting slow," Sherlock turned to face him.

In two strides the British Government official had crossed the room and whacked Sherlock's arm with his umbrella, making a loud _crack!_ akin to a gunshot. Sherlock didn't blatantly flinch, having nerves of steel during fights. But he rubbed the impacted area afterwards with a pained expression gracing the features Mycroft had never been so simultaneously relieved and irate to see.

"I must say Mycroft, I rather underestimated incurring the wrath of your dastardly umbrella."

"_I can't believe you!_" Mycroft hissed. "I have spent the last 4 hours feeling utterly awful, remembering you as if you were _dead_, wishing I could change everything, and reconsidering every terrible thing I've ever done to you. And you're here! Do you know what grief you've caused everyone?"

Mycroft collapsed onto the soft couch, and sunk in so much it was almost indecent for sitting, he thought. Across from him, Sherlock sat himself as well, and Molly closed the flowery curtains before muttering something about tea and hurrying out to give the brothers privacy. Mycroft fingered the lacy pillow next to him, and stared pointedly at the smooth wood of Molly's demilune coffee table.

"I was going to tell you Mycroft, obviously – as much as I loathe to say it, I need your help with this plan. I was just testing you to see if you'd deduce it. I was going to give you five hours before you were informed; I thought that was more than ample for you to figure it out. Apparently I was wrong, your brain must be becoming lethargic with age," Sherlock sneered. "I'm glad you haven't put on weight in the last four hours – I know you usually eat pastries when in distress. So the diet's holding up all right?"

Mycroft scowled. But he found he couldn't say angry with his brother for the relief that he wasn't dead.

"Anyway, it was completely necessary," Sherlock continued.

"Why?"

"Moriarty threatened me. I'm sure you cold obtain the transcript of our little rooftop rendezvous – you've bugged my phone, haven't you? Well, he told me that if I didn't commit suicide – thereby confirming my apparent disgrace – his snipers would kill my only three friends, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson," Sherlock's voice became quieter. "I couldn't let them die."

"Ah, I see, so this was a _noble_ sacrifice. But if you were already on the rooftop when you found out about this threat, how did you put measures in place beforehand?"

"I suspected the eventuality. For a long time he had been sending me messages – _I.O.U._, the fact he owed me a _fall_. Figuratively, a fall from genius, but also literally a fall. When he discredited me, I realised that that was only part of the plan, because dead men get listened to. He needed me discredited, and then dead by suicide to confirm the story."

Mycroft thought on this. He wasn't so angry anymore. But he was feeling stabs of guilt; Mycroft knew he had played a big part in this. By giving Moriarty so much information on Sherlock, he'd ensured the first part of the plan, the fall from grace. And that part, which came around because of him, was the precursor and reason for the second part, the suicide.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, this is all my fault and –"

"Mycroft, I know that you betrayed me. You've done it before, so you did it again. But I realise that this time you didn't mean harm. You had no choice but to give Moriarty that information to help the greater good of the nation. And while I am still angry with you for it, I realise the action does not reflect you yourself, but merely reflects your situation at the time. I am prepared to put it all aside so we can continue productively."

"Thank you," Mycroft murmured, relieved.

Sherlock jerked his had in a conciliatory nod, and silence reigned. Neither knew what to say, so Mycroft looked around the fluffy living room, all cute kittens and knitting patterns.

"So what's the plan now, Sherlock?"

"No one can know I'm alive. Moriarty's web is still out there, and my friends are still in danger and could be harmed should I reappear. My next task is to track down and dismantle Moriarty's web. This is where you come in, brother mine. With your connections and manipulative abilities, you would be invaluable to me, should you want to help. All that I'd require would be some of your henchmen to do some things for me, and if you could provide travel. Otherwise, you need to stay here. I want to look after John. I don't know what he'll do, but I suspect it couldn't be anything good. Will you do that?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course."

The room was silent again, before Mycroft stood, followed by Sherlock, signalling the end to their meeting.

"I'll be in contact with particulars of what your next moves will be?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded and turned to the window, his back to Mycroft. "See you then brother."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, turning before he left.

The younger whipped his head to stare at Mycroft, and the brothers looked at each other. A new understanding had been reached between them; one of the fact that they realised they would miss each other should one of the two die, and an understanding that they would still help each other in every possible way. They held eye contact for a while.

"It's good to have you back," Mycroft told him, before turning out of the cosy, warm hall and into the night. Animosity had reigned between the two brothers for twenty years, and they had not enjoyed each other's company since Sherlock was 11 years old. But Mycroft, who had never wanted a difficult relationship between the two, hoped it was on the mend. Sherlock waited on the plush carpet until Mycroft had gone and the click of the umbrella was out of earshot to reply.

"Good to have you back after so many years, brother. It's good to have _you_ back."


End file.
